Aperture Alike

By Lucar Roman

Aperture Alike began when the author first walked into a rock-climbing gym, and soon after, a community, more than a decade ago. A community held up by friends, mentors, and unlikely prophets of the steep, which quickly presented a fantastic, intoxicating path; a lifestyle without equal. While the sensational, rugged, and itinerant chapters - from high peaks to depraved inner landscapes – of the outdoor life came together, one facet soon became clear. The inner journeys of those friends, mentors, and homely prophets far exceeded any outward feat of will. Aperture Alikeattempts to shine light into the deeper realities, the inner character swings and the unplanned arcs of those who have both devoted themselves to an outside craft, and to defining themselves apart from it. 

Aperture Alike is a collection of short stories about community, about people pursuing their own immutably holy center point, in the midst of a life defined by trials and tribulation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catharsis
• Release date: Jan 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781955690829

Book preview

Dedication

This work is dedicated to the youth of today. To Miles, E.J. and Violet, to those born in these times. May you return to the source. May you follow the path of the indigenous peoples, and in so doing may you find what is most holy. There, may you free all that is most wild. There, may you find the most of your humanity.

///

acknowledgements

To the women. To my grandmothers, each, for their love. To my mother who birthed me, who painted cartoon figures over smashed-in doors to make beauty from pain, who always longed for freedom. To the mothers who have cared for and adopted me as their own son. To the men. To my grandfathers, each, for the grizzled, promising smiles they forced out despite lives constitutionally forged by suffering. To my father, who showed me the boundless potential of finding bottom, and who taught me to find the Holy in the rising glide of circling hawks and the cast of shadows across sacred lands. To the men who have loved me as their own son. To my sisters, who have taught me the power of unconditional positive regard toward another. To my brother, for taking those leads without having the right gear, long before we climbed anything, so I wouldn’t have to. For the years on the Wilshire porch and Mulberry rooftop, and for all the foundations we built together. To the Boustani family, for May 2nd, for taking me into your fold, for all the expressions of undeserved love and invitation.

To the boys, to Brendan, Nate, Nathan, Jordan, and Johnny, for the Nights staged in Fullerton learning how to bleed on the page and slosh freeform riots, until truth was found voice-boxes ran dry.

To the friends in these chapters, whose lives and actions have fundamentally inspired me to wake up each day and try to toe the line a little further. For allowing me the chance to see in each of you, something you may or may not have seen within, and for granting me the chance to open that light to anybody who would turn the next page.

To the community of outside seekers. To all who practice a craft and have shown me how. To those who seek truth in outside spaces. To the fellowship of men and women in the rooms. To John Rosendahl, for all the drops of sweat and the graceful smiles behind them. To Bobby, for the couch and shoulder to cry on in the trenches, then and still now. To Matt, and Dave, for lessons in partnership.

To Michael Kennedy, for your unwarranted, bountiful kindness, for your wisdom, for always sharing from the heart, and doing so in such generous fashion.

To Jeremy, for a companionship greater than the oceans between us. For your gargantuan embrace, for your untamable spirit, for your light.

To Nathalie, for everything words cannot contain. For the sacred moments, for naked acceptance, for an unfathomable journey to the edges of life itself. For your love, not only because I see it, but because through it I see all things.

For you, my salt.

///

FOREWORD

How is your heart these days? The question, clear and direct, comes towards the end of a spontaneous conversation aside a quiet country road in western Colorado as the afternoon enfolds us in crystalline late autumn warmth. The sun arcs down towards a nearby ridge top, foretelling the shadow to come. My friend and I have been talking politics and the pandemic and how we’ve weathered this strange year of 2020, each of us thankful to be in a place in our lives where we could ride out the waves of economic and social insecurity that have devastated communities all over the world. Thankful for this small mountain town with trails and open space close by. Thankful for friends and family and good health. Thankful for life.

She and I have known each other for decades and although we see each other infrequently our encounters are always marked by kindness and a sense of deep connection. Her question is not at all unwelcome, yet it takes my breath away. Broken, I tell her. My heart is still broken. She probes further, her eyes radiant with concern and curiosity. I tell her that I see the world through a different lens than before; I seek a peace that may never come and within that yearning find lengthening moments of clarity, of understanding, of wonder. I no longer assume a right to happiness.

///

Such matters preoccupy the author of the volume you now hold. Lucas Roman explores them not only with the eclectic cast of characters portrayed herein but within himself, and in doing so he encourages the reader to explore that which we hold in common with the misfits, madmen and mystics who walk among us and with us and whose visions and struggles mirror our own. The broken among us teach us how, he writes of Ghazaly, who despite the tremors of Parkinson’s revisits his own before on Cathedral Peak in the high country of Tuolumne. They have the key. They know deeply what it is and what it feels like to be human. They know pain and loss, they know frailty, and darkness. They know fear. They know the paralysis of it, the isolation of it, the chill of it.

Yet they also urge us towards the light. After all, Lucas reminds us, … it is love that we are destined for. To love in this life, more than we fear. No matter our condition. That love—our greatest destiny—is not something we generate but something we transmit, that love is not to be held or kept, it is only to be given.

A sense of gratitude and compassion permeates these stories as Lucas seeks out and embraces the at times unobvious strength and wisdom of his subjects. Most have a hard time digesting Brad’s simplicity in the face of his experience, he says of the late Brad Gobright, who for years survived that most demanding of alpine pursuits—rock climbing alone, unencumbered by ropes or safety gear or partners—yet fell to his death in 2019 while descending an ordinary climb with friends on an ordinary day. You want him to be brilliant. But he’s happy. You want him to be multi-faceted, but he runs perfectly as is. He is not what you want him to be, nor is he trying not to be, he just is.

For others, work and play intertwine in a dance of infinite possibility. Shanjean Lee strives to balance the demands of medical practice with a still-vivid life in the vertical, recognizing and acknowledging that where one ends isn’t necessarily where the other begins. Every so often, when you execute the perfect climb or the perfect surgery, says Shanjean, When you know you are doing something as well as it can possibly be done, then yes, it feels like you are a part of something greater than yourself… That’s what all the work is for. It is to be one hundred percent ready to have a moment like this when it presents itself.

///

The sun has left us. My friend shivers a little as she dons the sweater wrapped around her waist, and as we part she leaves me with a final question to consider: And what have you learned?

Not as much as I’d hoped, I think to myself. Not as much as I need to. Three years and counting since my son Hayden’s death, his absence remains an unfathomable mystery, a hole that nothing seems to fill, his memory an ever-present shadow at the edge of my consciousness. In that time I’ve discovered, as Matt Blank does in the first pages of this book, … that grief doesn’t get an answer, it simply must be endured, that it is an experience to be had. Yet I’ve also come to understand that when we speak of loss we also speak of hope, and such hope resides within the friends we know and the ones we have yet to meet, all of us in communion with the wind, the water, the ground on which we stand. Tomorrow, in that Canyon, what you’ll experience is sacred for us, Shaun Martin tells the 150 runners gathered for the 55-kilometer ultra he organizes each year on the land of the Dine in Canyon De Chelly, Arizona. The walls will sing if you listen, the sky and the earth will guide you, the Spirit People will hear your chants and see your effort, and they will commune with you.

And perhaps a fraction of the truth of these stories is simply that while there are no easy answers to the big questions, it is essential that we ask them of ourselves, and to act on this questioning each day with divine intention and gratitude. And love.

—Michael Kennedy, December 2020,

Carbondale, Colorado

///

INTRODUCTION

December 2020 —

Many years back, I took to writing as one takes to running at a local level. Purely for the promise of movement, and a new experience. It wasn’t to get anywhere in particular, aside from out the front door, considering I carried no great speed. I had no intention toward any great distance, nor had I any intention to arrive at any mythic destination. Surely, it was more fundamental than that. Each time I ‘put on the shoes’, I did so only to embrace a simple truth: the notion that no matter how far I went or where it may lead, without any goal in mind, life was simply better for doing it than not. The reward was always in the practice itself.

Some years passed, and the works evolved, as the subject matter also evolved with them. Being drawn to the outside spaces, and the communities who filled them, I began only with what I knew. However, where much of mountain literature—or adventure journalism—had sensational stories to tell, my trails took me, almost without my own choosing, to inner landscapes. That I had never achieved any fantastic heights or striking feats of accomplishment in my own adventures, perhaps, forced me to look at the value of the outside experience with an adjusted scope.

In no specific place or point in time, the landscape I occupied in my writing began to shift, and while I still knew not where I was going, I was sure that at the least, I had gone some ways from that front door. Soon, I began looking for stories, for experiences, which would shape a larger perspective. Truth be told, my hunch is that these things chose and sought me, more than I chose them. And perhaps that is the great gift of the tales in this collection, for me alone; that from each experience came a new, or deeper relationship, to a person, a community, and a brighter world.

Before even half of the pieces in this collection were first drafted, I began to sense there might be something holding them together. That, while unique in their own arcs, they might all be plotting a common terrain. And so, for the sake of curiosity, perhaps even a grand failure, it was decided that I would run all the branches of the trail before me, to discover in just which ways they might indeed loop, braid, and frame the space we call the outside experience. There must, I thought, be more to all of this outside business that I’ve fallen slave to, than simple fun-hogging. It may not need be an entirely esoteric venture. It may, like Zen, not even be subject to transcription by the rational mind. But at the least, it deserves more than the notion of a privileged, passing whim.

It was at this same time, in the fall of 2019, that I self-published a piece online, which caught the attention of some folks in ways I would have never imagined. This led to an unexpected, and surely unplanned opportunity to go full steam, to write with a purpose. The offer was clear, full freedom, no pre-conditions applied. Just say whatever you have to say. Write the book.

It scared the shit out of me.

I may have begun the journey of writing without intending to arrive anywhere, but now, tasked with creating a book I was forced to consider, at the least, where to go, or minimally, something to aim for.

At a precipice, I had to ask what of these adventure experiences was most important, for me. And, if I could only focus on a few characters, a few themes, a few modes of storytelling even, what would they be? After a soul-search I concluded, that in the world we occupy, in 2020, there was no longer time for flare or panache alone, at least not my attempts at it. We’ve come too far to appeal only to sensationalism, senility, extravagance, or even fun-hogging. Our lives, and our time, ask more of us. More than cleverness, I understood, that I need at least try for something like truth.

And so, here is my submission. It is not designed to impress, I am not at last, here to dazzle with great spectacle or dizzying affectation. Having come through my own dark nights of the soul, and having been led to the light, by the unsuspecting saints who fill the rooms of recovery fellowships, I am here to share the only message I know: that life is flush with order among chaos, goodness among pain, a deep hope in the midst of all calamity, and incomprehensible holiness. That the sublime itself can exist just as fully as the darkness seems to, and that it may even be born of it. Above all, my description, the aperture I use to inform my vision of life, and the outside experience, is not conclusive. If anything, it is simply an invitation.

The outside life is extremely complex—nuanced, individual, sacred, hidden even—and because of this, thin-slicing segments of it in the form of small vignettes was my only reasonable approach. The result, are simply shutter-stops, apertures with varying forms of light. Transcribing the inner experience, one character at a time, proved elusive, but it is precisely the elusiveness of it that constitutes its beauty. Surely, the depth of the outside experience is fashioned uniquely, for each of us. And so, I make no effort to dictate what any one person’s experience should be like, but within these stories, in moments of reflection, I do stand on certain concepts, and principles, for the sake of direction on the path.

My aim was to shine a light, at least metaphorically, on everyone. The characters compiled here, I believe, are a sufficiently rounded cast from whom we may find direction and our own likeness. Against all appearances, the stories are less about rock-climbing, B.A.S.E jumping, highlining, skydiving, or distance running as they are about the inner life of those who do such things. They are about the heart condition of humans, out in nature, looking for their own. As a friend of mine has said, they are cairns on a long and winding path. They are not intended to declare any arrival, but to assure you that you are not lost. A trail cairn asks that you continue, as these stories ask that we also continue, individually, and as communities, onward.

Additionally, it is my belief that the outside revelation exists for all, period. I could, in short time, not possibly showcase that experience from all people groups, or gender groups, but I have made the effort to at least showcase the experience at a variety of intersections. The premise of this work is that if there is a great truth in living the outside life, it must be available to all! And, that it must translate to life in the lowlands. If it cannot be integrated everywhere, it likely is an illusory revelation, at best.

For the purposes of disclosure, I will say that all stories here are true, in that all the events which are said to have happened, certainly happened. For privacy, some names of peripheral characters have been changed, but the augmentation of details begins and ends there. They are all matters of fact. But truth is also more than the superficial details, it is a tone, a resonance, and with that in mind I also believe that events ‘as they happened’ are but a first draft of history, as truth would have it told. When writing I do my best to elicit that interplay, between exact details and fuller, or even subtler tones. Each and every word in quotation may not have been said, precisely as is, but there is no conjecture or untruth spoken in this work either. Nothing has been fabricated. It is, non-fiction, but it is not without some measure of interpretation, and surely not without appeals to a great imagination.

And that leads to the order of these stories. It is not lost on me, the degree to which loneliness, isolation, and fear pervade the current human experience. It has indeed been the chief make-up of my own life. Additionally, for outside and adventure-sports communities, death, grief, and loss are common and often unconsolidated fragments of our experience. So, that is where we begin. Not just with death and loss, but with darkness, sadness, and unwanted burdens of illness.

The first half of this collection, generally, focuses on persons in pain, situations of loss, and a general disorientation of purpose and direction. The second half, by contrast, is designed to showcase moments of clarity. Sometimes found at the individual level, sometimes found for only an instant, sometimes found in communities. The orthopedic surgeon and climbing partner, Dave Wright, finds in a second story, a deeper fuel source and resolution for life that he had missed on first pass. Matt Blank, close friend and veteran sky flier, consolidates the loss of his dearest friend in a new approach to skydiving and B.A.S.E jumping, one which embraces the beauty and the calamity assigned him in the very first story of the series. The truly nomadic, somewhat controversial and at times even polemic figure, Sa`id Belhaj, goes past his character defects and offers a glimpse of a deep mysticism in his Gnawan roots. And, through the examples set by the matriarchal Dine (Navajo) tribe of distance runners, and two feminine heroes, Faith Dickey and Shanjean Lee, respectively, we are given a gentle nudge, a warm invitation, to a framework for life that embraces energies equally feminine as masculine.

In closing, I’ll share that while some ideas, axioms, and institutions are challenged, it was never my aim to put anyone or anything on trial. Second, if there is any slant to this volume, entirely, if any agenda is being pushed, let it be stated that I intend only to skew toward what the Dine (Navajo) have called, The Beauty Way. There, and in schools of thought of shared ilk, I will plant a flag. Surely, chief among my few, simple aims, was to honor the indigenous peoples, upon whose ancient lands so many of these discoveries, these revelations, have been and will continue to be found. I hope I have done them no injustice, and better still, some level of celebration.

I have done my best with the time I was given to tell the stories of all of us. There are those who do it professionally, those who do it personally, and those who can barely do it at all. There are those who come of privilege and those who come only of pain. I hope you can find some of your own experience in each of them, as I have. An aperture is simply an opening, or a source, through which light passes. My hope, in the apertures provided by the subjects of these stories, is that you may find something shared, something beautiful, something true.

May the characters of these stories shine more than the words I employed to describe them. May you feel all the emotions herein, and may you feel all of them more than you expected to. May you take up your own journey, and may you meet many others along the way. May you put on your shoes and step outside, in whatever fashion, for whatever distance, to whatever measure, with the simple belief that your life will be better for having done so than not.

—Lucas Roman

///

THE STORIES

Dedication

acknowledgements

FOREWORD

INTRODUCTION

Under Canopy

The Greater Fool

Western Medicine

SalAt al-Zuhr

The Gnawan

Onna Bugeisha

Woman: Kind.

///

Under Canopy

On Tuesday, July 21st, 2015, two of my longtime friends, Matt Blank and Ian Flanders, hiked a striking cliff line outside of the town of Kemaliye, Turkey, under a crescent light which mixed shards of moonbeam across a murex sky. Ungodly as the hour was early, it was also quiet, the kind of quiet that is only broken by footsteps cracking granules of soil apart, and by the sound of cool, sharp breath. On the edge, where they preferred to forge friendship, they stood at an unopened B.A.S.E. exit. Staring down the canyon at an abysmal chute, the kind which only deals in terms of life and death, they asked only a few simple questions of each other. Tension and axons strung to the wire, they did not wait for second guesses nor daylight. Gut check complete, they dove, one after the other, in a hair-raising, fell swoop, the likes of which only birds of prey craft and contrive. Screaming into the void faster than their nerve endings could conjugate, they sliced through the heart of that godforsaken canyon as a comet does into the earth, with complete disregard for the eons and forces which formed it. At something akin to the human speed of sound, a few thousand feet later, they cleared the hazards and the shadowlands which housed them, and pulled parachutes; Ian landing safely into the current of a gushing Karasu River, just meters away from a small watercraft. Whether by skill or fortune, Matt landed a moment later, on a Goddman dime, both feet on the boat without even getting his parachute wet.

A media celebration, something both of them were familiar with, ensued, as they’d just established one of, if not the most dangerous, B.A.S.E. jumps in the world. It was a heralding day, all before most of the old men in the sleepy town had even had their first cup of muddy Arabica coffee. This also was by design. Not only was the air density better for the morning jump, but the company they intended to keep was as well. Matt, Ian, and their friend Scotty Bob had decided to leave in haste that morning because a local physician and B.A.S.E. jumper had hard-pressed them to join. The fellow, it was said, could not see the extent of his limitations, and for that reason, was left in his sleeping bag in those early morning hours. Neither Matt, Ian, nor Scotty, wanted to have a fellow flier’s death occur on their watch. Even midway through the season 2015 had been quite the year.

Hordes of jumpers and fliers, some of them among the most respected in the nascent sport itself, had gone in that summer. Their departures had not been foreseeable nor within reason. It was the guy or girl that you swore wouldn’t go down that way. It was unjust, unfair, and impartial to skill, craft, or capability. With that momentum, and the scars it etched, the boys had not only called the local doctor off the jump, once they completed their new B.A.S.E. exit they nearly called off the rest of the trip entirely. If you asked Matt, they were about one beer away from packing-in the parachutes and raising pint glasses for the remainder of the itinerary. But you do not come across the globe, to the heart of the ancient world, for cheap swill.

Matt and Ian decided, in the quiet refrain of the afternoon, to have another go at an easier location. No need for antics, Ian asserted, just one more, easy ride downstream. Couldn’t hurt to have just one more look at those rock-floored, emerald waters. It was an entirely different, and entirely more secure exit, after all.

Between a thousand-foot, shadow cast canyon known as the Karanlik, Matt and Ian sat on the loveseat, a refashioned concept of a rickshaw bench turned cable car—about the size of two ass cheeks—while the crank ratcheted them into free space. With a nod of pure satisfaction, Ian stood up first, sun glowing through his Leonidas-like beard, turning his hazel eyes alight. Sure as he’d ever been, he gave Matt a fist-bump and a high-five, took a half squat to load the knees at force, and then pitched off in a backflip. An exit that Matt and many others had seen no less than a thousand times.

It was among the safest possible jumps in the sport.

///

Halfway to Vegas, we’re stuck in a pickle; traffic isn’t moving an inch. Rubber tires droop like Dali clocks, melting off their wheel wells, and the 15 freeway feels like the underarm of humanity. It’s a long road ahead and we’re nowhere close to the midpoint, let alone the endpoint, which is Moab, with a stop in Salt Lake. Radiators overheat, cars pull-over, spectators sweat in the sunbaked heat of the afternoon. Staving off our own meltdown, I quickly shuffle through the music library, pulling out a set of Ghanaian Afro-soul and psychedelia circa 1974. The bass line steadies, the horns syncopate, a little disco synth glues it fast, the band drops the beat and it’s off to the fucking races. Volume up, the reverberations bubble over the rear-view mirror just in time for me to look through it and see Matt. He’s a caricature of cool in a moment of joy, as he pushes a can of Whip-Its into his lungs with a shit-grin on his face and a pair of diamonds etched on the soles of his feet. Moments later, traffic clears, and the poor souls whose car burned beside the fast lane stand and ponder the ashes. The evening sky paints brushstrokes over the bulging horizon. The gas pedal goes down, and voices of the Sub-Saharan world serenade us through the desert.

He got those tattoos ages ago—the diamonds on the soles of his feet —long before losing Ian and so many others in the game of life. And he’s walked miles on them. Be it the ten or fifteen straight and narrow steps on the line for Johnny Law, the thousands of kilometers slogging toward a B.A.S.E. exit, or in the handful of picturesque highlines he’s walked in the canyons of the Utah desert. But nothing has put Matt or his ink to the test quite like the pain he’s had since losing Ian. Once a bright, ambitious army green, Matt’s diamonds now look more like a dimly lit OPEN sign over a seedy bar. They may not be the mission statement on life they once were, but they still shine. So does Matt, even now, as the shit-grin turns perma-smile while the nitrous oxide tickles his brain and the music hits him just right.

I’ve been sober for some time now, so I know Matt’s trip is only temporary, but then again, so does he. Hell, it wasn’t all that long ago I was the one shaking off the delirium tremens on his couch, while homeless and trying to shuffle out a new hand at life. He and I both have seen what a real dose of abuse can do. For now, I’m not worried, he’s nowhere close to passing a recreational level with this stuff, even if there is a flood of grief behind it. Besides, Matt is good, deeply good, and he’s always had life skills. Many of them have been collected on the fringe, but they have proven their worth in spades.

Deeper in the twilight, the desert sparkles with life. Stars shoot across the sky while indigo pours over the silhouettes of yuccas and Joshua Trees. It’s a welcome overlay to the somber notes of our current mission. We’re headed to Salt Lake to meet with Matt’s friend, and film producer, Anson, who’s making a short piece not just about who, but also what, was lost on that fateful day in Kemaliye. A film about friendship, about brotherhood.

It’s been nearly four months since Ian passed. He and I shared our own escapades; long days out climbing, lucid nights chasing a good buzz and the perfect story to tell. We had our own stitches holding up our fabric.